


dark, and heart obsessed

by takesguts



Series: hold me down [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cheating, Control Issues, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Love, Jealousy, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Possessive Behavior, Unhealthy Relationships, dark themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-08-23 17:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takesguts/pseuds/takesguts
Summary: Getting it right was not one of Ian and Mickey's strong suits. [telling you to listen, to all the bad things I say]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this has been clawing at my brain and maybe even my soul. There's probably a lot more warnings and tags I should mention, so feel free to tell me to add something if you feel strongly that it should be mentioned. 
> 
> This is not a happy story. 
> 
> This story will contain graphic violence, cheating, sexual content, drug use, and unhealthy behaviors in relationships. Mentions of abuse, physical and verbal.

"Post traumatic stress disorder," his therapist says.

 

 

"PTSD?" Mickey echoes, making a face, "I didn't go to fuckin' war."

 

 

Recently, his shrink or whatever - court appointed bullshitter, really - changed the ticking clock that hung above his door to a smaller, silent one on his desk that Mickey has to really focus on to read.

 

 

"Trauma can be caused by a number of stressors," he comments, adjusting his glasses and the scene is so movie scripted that Mickey has to actively stop himself from mentioning it. However, he's at least not writing shit down on some piece of fuckin paper, and Mickey can find a semblence of minor appreciation for that.

 

 

There's a reputation to uphold, though, and Mickey isn't even trying when he gives the doc his most unimpressed look, "What," he deadpans, "like my dad beating the shit out of his faggot son? Yeah, okay man, I think I got that."

 

 

Social services brought it up first, when he was eleven, followed by his probation skank his first time in juvie (and twice after), his lawyer mentioned it a handful of times, his parole officer and now this goddamn joker. Same old routine; Mickey's walked this walk before.

 

 

"Nuture fucked me, nature just adapted," he laments, fake and bored.

 

 

"Sure," doc says, slowly, nodding for emphasis, "your dad abusing you, we could talk about that. Or we could talk about Ian abusing you."

 

 

He doesn't flinch, fuck no, but he's helpless to stop the way his jaw clenches, expression shuttering just a fraction. It's only a momentary slip up, in seconds he's squaring his jaw and hardening his gaze.

 

 

Under any other circumstance, Mickey would have never mentioned his - Ian. Probably not even his sexuality. Considering the means to which he ended up in these stupid fucking sessions are related to both of those topics, Mickey figured out pretty quickly he was shit out of luck.

 

 

If only his dad could see him now; in goddamn fairy ass fucking therapy over some stupid twink.

 

 

"Ian didn't abuse me," he scoffs instead, diverting. They fought, sure, occasionally with fists. It was always mutual destruction; Micket always gave as good as he got. Sometimes, even swung first.

 

 

"Not physically," is the amend, but his voice is too gentle, "but emo-"

 

 

Snorting, loud and brash, he interrupts, "fucking emotionally? Come on, PhD, you can do better then that. I'm a big boy. Know it's okay to cry sometimes, and everything."

 

 

Undeterred, the therapist presses, "Cheating abuses a relationship, a person's trust."

 

 

Saving face, Mickey rolls his eyes for effect, but he can't deny to himself how the words feel sharp like splinters. Cheating, Ian fucking - he hates this. Hates how they circle around this topic every fucking week, and before Mickey could keep track of the minutes, carefully craft and direct the conversation around his mom, his siblings, growing up alone - blah blah blah - until by the time his shrink managed to steer them back toward the real reason he's here their session is practically up. Guess the guy caught on. Huh.

 

 

"You changed the clock," Mickey says obnoxiously, but it's a pathetic attempt.

 

 

"You relapsed in a man's apartment," the statement is mildly startling, thus far the man's been almost annoyingly patient and polite in response to Mickey's stone throwing techniques, "the apartment of the man your ex told you he filmed a sexual tape with."

 

 

Hearing it from a stranger, an outsider, some random fucking prick -

 

 

He doesn't understand, doesn't know jack fucking shit and hearing it out of his mouth makes Mickey quake, makes him snarl, hackles raised.

 

 

"Miligram miscalculation," he mutters, thumbing the side of his nose, "coulda happened to anyone. Fucker's lucky I had passed out before he got back."

 

 

"You seem to be missing the point, Mikhalio."

 

 

Grimacing, Mickey waves a hand at him, "no," he snaps, "you are. Don't wanna fucking talk about it."

 

 

"It's recommended that you do."

 

 

"Fuck off, I do," he spits, rolling his shoulders, "learned my damn lesson. Breaking and entering, bad. Handful of benzos, still just as bad as the label mentions."

 

 

Sighing, his older man rubs at his forehead. The tolerence he has is maddening; seems more fucking disappointed then frustrated.

 

 

"Your parole is an entire year," he says, smart and placating and annoying as fuck, "at some point you will have to speak about this. Your sessions here are your literal get out of jail card; showing up here is what let's you keep your job, your apartment, visiting rights to your son. Your freedom. Might as well make some use of it, so maybe think about it."

 

 

Pure instinct leaves Mickey wanting to lash out, but sobriety whispering in the back of his mind reminds him that'd be a stupid fucking move.

 

 

"Time's up."

 

 

Despite the verbal reprimanding that has Mickey bitter and seething like an adolescent, he still makes a show of groaning noisily and gratefully, giving a cheery wave over his shoulder.

 

 

\- - - -

Tuesday mornings, just like the rest of the days of the week, have this tendency to transition into Tuesday afternoons and then into evenings.

 

 

The newness of his most recent clean up act still has him astounded with certain things. For instance, how many hours there are in a day being the most glaringly obvious. Not having pill induced black outs and losing chunks of time feels weird, mostly because he's forced to find actual ways to spend his day.

 

 

It's a short list between boxing, showering, absently picking up his apartment and emailing his sister. He hasn't bothered to get a replacement phone, not after he smashed his last one into a stranger's bathroom mirror. He doesn't trust himself just yet, to not try and call - the temptation is only a murmur in the back of his mind currently. He's busied himself with menial things, and it's surprisingly easy to not reach out when the only people you have contact with are the people you can directly see.

 

 

On this particular afternoon, he volunteered down at the pitbull rescue a few blocks from his place because the buzzing beneath his skin was too loud to ignore after that trainwreck of an appointment and he needed more then folding some laundry to get his mind off the itch. He'd avoided the place for two weeks because the desk girls damn near had him leaving with an armful of blue eyed pit puppy, the weak fucker that he is, so he needed a break.

 

 

The irony is not lost on him.

 

 

So fucking weak.

 

 

Except, now. Now it's Tuesday evening, and Tuesday evenings are infinitely better then Tuesday afternoons, and especially Tuesday mornings.

 

 

The door to the community building is heavy, hinges rusted and groaning with the humidity of the summertime heat of Chicago. He drops his last cigarette when he can taste the filter and that's a pack and a half today, despite the activities, because he still feels wound up and like a fight. Almost skipped this, for an actual fight but blood and bruises make him binge and booze, so he purposefully took the long walk from the El to avoid his usual stomping ground. Small victories.

 

 

Never in his life did Mickey ever think he'd enjoy an NA meeting; always thought group therapy was for even bigger pussies. What person in their right goddamn mind would wanna share their feelings with people who understood? Stupid fucking people, that's who. Place is usually full of junkie's trying to find other junkie's to score from, or elitist sap's that follow some old ass code.

 

 

This meeting is on the North side of the city, a pain in the ass to get to, but Mickey's not tempted with fellow addicts whispering in his ear. Everyone is pretty clean cut, no real South Side tweakers, and most of them have been sober for years on years. The coffee is half decent, but more decent is the eye candy in the form of fellow member, possible new sponsor, Jack.

 

 

Dark hair, dark eyes, tons of ink; boy's got four years sober, a foul mouth, and a killer grin. Not Mickey's usual grab, but it's almost impossible to ignore the way the guy oozes charm and trouble that Mickey is longing to get caught up in.

 

 

Three months; it's been three fucking months of walking the straight line, of sobriety a whole damn new routine. Three months since he got laid. Since Ian fucking left him, again.

 

 

The hand holding his coffee cup trembles, just a bit and from behind him, a hand curls over his, similarly tattooed fingers slotting in between his and the touch makes his skin crawl with something ugly and delightful all at once.

 

 

"Ay," he grumbles, snatching his hand away, "enough with that queer shit."

 

 

"Helpless moth," Jack croons, gesturing to himself and then back to Mickey, "big burning flame."

 

 

"For fuck's sake -"

 

 

"All we are doing is talking about hooking up," Jack complains, following Mickey to his usual spot in the back of the room, "and not actually doing it. What's your angle, Mousie?"

 

 

"Would you," Mickey starts, glaring, but his eyes get caught in the way Jack's teeth - such nice fucking teeth what the fuck - are rolling the metal bar through the middle of his lip back and forth and he can't stop himself from grinning, just slightly.

 

 

Truth is - Jack's a great distraction. Persistently flirtatious, even if he's a little over the top. It's nice to know you're wanted and Jack most definitely wants to have sex with Mickey, but every time the opportunity arises, the ex-con can't stop himself from backing out. He knows he's being the literal definition of a tease, between the texts and the "accidental" touching, but he just doesn't know how to take that next step anymore. It's been years since he's tried hooking up with anyone else, let alone casually.

 

 

Jack just smirks, knowing and smug and so fucking cocksure that Mickey knows one day soon he's going to cave.

 

 

"Eagerly commited to the stereotype of sponsor-sponsee fucking, are we?" He teases instead, blinking slowly and tucking his tongue between his teeth, trying to let the guy know his attempts arent entirely unnoticed.

 

 

"Hey, man," Jack replies, low and easy, "I've got seniority here, a reputation to uphold."

 

 

"Okay, tough guy."

 

 

"I mean," he continues, "if you're not gonna share here, with everyone, you might as well share with me, hm?"

 

 

It's the second time today someone's told him something he should be doing. It reminds him of what Mandy would say: best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

 

 

From the way their thighs press together, body language shifting and electrified, Mickey decides he should at least listen to one party that has, ah, some experience in making better decisions.


	2. Feeble Minded

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not sure which out of the two I prefer writing. I adore Mickey, prefer where he is coming from, but something about Ian, idk

**July.**

 

 

 

On the table, just out of arms reach, Ian's phone buzzes.

 

The tactic is intentional; forces him to take a moment to stand, breathe while he leans across to check the message. It's been two days since the habit started, the obsessive checking and rechecking of his phone but that's because it's been over three months. Technically, it's been fourteen weeks, give or take, one hundred and seven days. Could probably even narrow it down to hours, the exact minutes - 

 

He forces a three count before he opens his messages. 

 

_Day four!!!_

 

Fiona. 

 

The disappointment he feels is crippling; his entire chest aches with it. He replies, half heartedly, on his congratulations on his sisters recently decided "boy cleanse" thinks keeping him updated occasionally will make him consider joining her, but he doesn't have it in him to tell her that's not been much of a problem for him recently. 

 

Sure, he's tried, but the desire just doesn't stick around long enough. It's not what he wants. If he were to share that, however, Fiona would get that look on her face - cautious and worried and so damn sisterly he knows dispite the near constant numbness, somewhere inside he would feel the slightest bit guilty. 

 

 

Guilty for what he did, for how he's even considering doing it again. 

 

Round five, so affectionately deemed, had been a real number. Partly because of how heady and intoxicating it had been when they started back up again. Ian's medicated, but he can still feel the shift into a swing, even if they aren't as consuming as when he was first diagnosed. So he was high, that night when he went to find Mickey at some party. 

 

High like Mickey had been getting, again, but it was the furthest thought from his mind when he showed up. The time apart between round four and five had been shorter then previous times, only two weeks, but that was mostly due to it being Mickeys call for space. They'd talked every day, and Ian knew it was only a matter of time so what the fuck. Why hadn't Mickey told him about the party, why had he heard about him going from someone fucking else? 

 

Of course, he had made a big scene, getting in the dudes face about keeping his sleazy fucking hands to himself. 

 

That kinda shit always got Mickey going though, and any space the dark haired boy had claimed to had needed vanished at Ian's jealous meltdown. All that evening he spent glued to Ian's side, sweet eyed and apologetic. 

 

The memory makes him sick, and he has to set the phone back on the table, screen down. This restless feeling in his bones is exhausting, gnawing and constant, with no foreseeable end unless he can talk to Mickey soon, at least find out what he's doing, where he is. 

 

Frustrated, Ian paces the kitchen, reaching for his phone again only to catch himself. 

 

"Stop," he says, outloud, and decides to go for a run. 

 

\- - - - - - 

 

He runs the blocks parallel to where Mickeys siblings live, still. Doesn't turn down the street, hell no, if any one of them were home they'd kick his ass, without a doubt. But it's comforting to know that he could still, or that if something were really wrong - like he's been dreadfully paranoid about at night - the family is still close enough that they would tell him. 

 

Running doesn't really help clear his head all that much, spends the majority of the time debating on which sibling he could find out information about Mickey on. Lips definitely out, would give him a lecture and act like some wise ass older brother when really he would be collecting it in his arsenal of things to use against Ian later. Debbie would probably tell him, sympathetic and with grand ideas of romance but she would definitely also tell Fiona (which crosses out Vee, as well, probably even Kev) so that's a no brainer. 

 

Carl is the top prospect, considering his brothers relationship drama is far enough off his radar he wouldn't think to mention it to anyone else. Ian just doesn't know if his younger brother would have any knowledge about anything to do with his ex. 

 

As he turns the corner back onto his street, panting and drenched in sweat, he sees his younger sibling dropping his bike into the front yard. Well, ask and you shall receive, no time like the present, badabing. 

 

 

\- -- - - - 

 

Twenty bucks and a warning text later from Lip, Ian learns not as much shit gets by Carl as he originally thought. Guess that's what he gets. 

 

\- - - - - - -

 

Strangely enough, the information comes from Lips college thing, Amanda three days later. Which, clearly Lip is not sharing as much family drama with his so called girlfriend, but he's grateful it works out in his favor. 

 

Its just them, that Saturday morning, still too early for anyone to be up. Honestly, he's surprised she's even awake - he had spent all night tossing and turning, feeling downright cagey. It was a miracle he had convinced himself to stay in bed until at least eight AM, to not rouse any suspicion by risking getting up any earlier then that. 

 

"morning," she greets, sporting a tank top and a pair of Lips basketball shorts. Definitely the most modest any of Lips girls has ever been, even if she's not wearing a bra. 

 

"uh, hey," he says, a little stupidly, but his skin feels stretched tight and it's so hot already. 

 

Apparently, his discomfort is coming through more clearly then he thought, because as he's - perhaps, aggressively - buttering his toast, Amanda comes up beside him holding a coffee mug and a sincere expression.

 

"You holding up okay?" She asks, doing something weird and reaching out to touch his elbow, "I know it must be weird, finding out your ex is seeing someone else. You guys have been together for like, ever right?" 

 

"What?" 

 

The knife in his hand drops, clattering loudly in the unusually silent house. It's deafening, still. Or maybe that's the blood rushing in his head, the heart pounding in his fucking throat. What did she just say, what the fuck did she just say. 

 

When he rounds on her, he's trying not to scare her, trying not to look as agitated as he feels but somewhere in his whirring thoughts he knows he's failing. His entire body feels like it's crumbling, like shards of glass are shattering inside his ribcage. He's going to - he wants to scream, wants to throw himself against the walls kicking and hitting and - 

 

"Ian, IAN!"

 

Oh. He is screaming. Slowly he looks down, to where his hand feels like it's throbbing in time with his soaring pulse. There's blood, his knuckles are split open or - is he still screaming? 

 

No.

 

He unclenches his fist, or someone is doing it for him but there's still so much noise and when he forces himself to blink again he makes himself take a breath with it too and that's when he notices Fiona's hands around his bruised one. 

 

To his right, Lips voice is repeating his  name over and over, and in front of him, a few feet back Amanda is pressed against the wall looking stunned and afraid. 

 

Beside him, his brother is still attempting to get his attention, but Ian can't make out any of the words he's saying. 

 

"why didn't you tell me?" He asks finally, voice shaking and quiet. "why didn't you tell me?" 

 

"Oh, Ian," Fiona sighs, wrapping her arms around him, but he can't even feel it. Can't feel anything past the ache in his heart, in his entire fucking body, down to every last cell, synapse fire. 

 

theres nothing she could do though, not one word she could say. Mickey, his Mickey. And they knew, fucking lying, sneaking assholes. They knew and were what? Trying to protect him? 

 

"no," he says, shrugging them off insistently, even when they reach for him again, "no fuck you, both of you, all of you. I gotta go - I gotta -" 

 

Hes out the door moments later, his injured hand pressed against his stomach like he's keeping his guts from spilling out. 

 

A few blocks over, there's a clinic, he could get it looked at. The pharmacy is right down the alley from Mandy's and then it's just six feet from the fence and five steps to the door. 

 

One of them will be home, he's counting on it. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of those reading. It does rly encourage a lady.


	3. malfunction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoop, this is probably the longest chapter yet. Not sure what happened.

**July.**

 

 

 

 

On a Sunday, Mickey gets off at the wrong stop on the El. Its been raining all morning, damp and dark, early enough still that he isn't even thinking about it when he gets off the train onto the platform.

 

 

It's halfway down the steps when he gathers his surroundings. Wrong fucking stop.

 

 

The frustration that hits him feels like lead; it's a dumb fucking mistake, he knows, but it feels ominous in a way some how. Like a premonition, because it's been so long and he's been so good. Hasn't even thought about it for six days, but here he goddamn is like some unbreakable habit. One he can't detox from.

 

 

Angry at himself, he goes turns back up the steps.

 

 

The fifteen minutes he has to wait for the next train makes him late for his visitation with his son. Svetlana glares at him, and for some reason it feels like she knows. Like his slip up is written all over his goddamn face.

 

 

So he focuses on Yev, tells him stories about pirates he looked up on the internet the other night when he was craving really bad. He read four stories, over and over, until he could recount them almost perfectly.

 

 

He tries not to think about how much better Ian was at this, would do different voices and everything. How he could have just made up his own story, on the spot, not spent hours in self loathing trying not to use.

 

 

Today feels like one of those days.

 

 

\- - - - -

On his way home he stands by the door furthest from the platform, and actively doesn't look out either windows the entire trip home.

 

 

In his apartment he keeps his light off, and the television on mute. He falls asleep at five o'clock.

 

 

\- - - - -

Two days later, Jack falls in step next to him as he's walking home from work.

 

 

"Because this isn't weird," Mickey says, staring at him pointedly.

 

 

Jack gives him a sleazy grin, "been thinking about that ass," he replies, shrugging, "would have called, but, you're archaic."

 

 

"Practical," Mickey corrects, unlocking the door to his apartment building.

 

 

"Semantics," Jack replies, waving a dismissive hand. "If you don't want me stalking you, or I don't know, writing you letters better rejoin this century."

 

 

It's been five dates, maybe seven if you count the two times they just hooked up. Usually Jack insists on taking him places, sometimes before sex, occasionally after. It's weird, and Mickey isn't sure how he feels about it. Jack doesn't treat him any certain way in public, never tries to hold his hand or let everyone know they're on a date or some shit. But something about it feels strange anyway, like he's being courted.

 

 

Instead of responding, he makes a noncommittal noise in his throat, dismissing the wheedling. He hasn't really - gotten around to the actual reason he's such a hermit. As far as he's concerned, there's no real reason for Jack to know yet. Nothing's happened and nothing is happening.

 

 

Inside his apartment, Jack presses him against his front door and kisses him thoroughly. One hand on the back of his skull, the other just under his ribcage. He lets himself be kissed, lets Jack crowd him against the door and he curls his fingers in the mans tshirt, tugging playfully. He's not sure how long they stand there, making out, easy and hot like it is outside.

 

 

Like it should be in his apartment, because he wasn't home all day, because he can't afford to leave it on like that, but it's cold and comfortable, and Mickey knows he turned it off this morning. Knows sure as shit because it's the second thing he does in his morning routine.

 

 

Opening his eyes, he starts to turn his face away.

 

 

Mandy is standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

 

 

Startled, Mickey shoves Jack away from him, and wipes at his mouth. Shit. Shit, fuck shit.

 

 

"What," Jack starts, but follows Mickeys gaze over his shoulder, "oh, well."

 

 

Arms crossed, Mandy looks like a flurry of emotions - ones Mickey is impressed he can even recognize.

 

 

"Well," she echoes, taking a few steps closer, "good to know you're not dead, Mick. Or should I be calling 9-1-1?"

 

 

Thumbing his mouth, Mickey glances everywhere but his sister. The whole room feels tense and uncomfortable; he feels like he got caught doing something he shouldn't, which is stupid because he's an adult and capable - occasionally - of making his own decisions. Like he's thirteen again, hiding a dirty secret from his family.

 

 

"I'm his sponsor," Jack speaks up from beside him, and takes a step or two forward to hold out his hand. "You must be Mandy."

 

 

Apprehensive, Mandy gives her brother a clear look, but shakes Jacks hand regardless.

 

 

"Uh, huh."

 

 

More awkward silence. Mickey is suddenly irrationally angry; angry that he got caught, that now someone knows and it's something that's going to be talked about now and discussed and once that happens it stops being easy and fun and starts being thought about, considered.

 

 

"The fuck you doing here," he barks, moving suddenly to brush past his sister and into his kitchen, grabbing a Gatorade out of his fridge.

 

 

"You haven't emailed me in four days, douchebag," she snaps, always ready to fight, "when someone can't just fucking call you -"

 

 

"What I was just saying," Jack interrupts, nodding solemnly.

 

 

"Drastic measures are forced to be taken." She finishes, glaring.

 

 

Fuck, four days? Had it really been that long?

 

 

His overall anger shifts, and he wishes more then anything Jack wasn't here right now. For some reason it feels like all his fault - that he's been so distracted lately; not paying attention to where he's going, remembering to contact his sister. Five dates feels fucking stupid now. He should be focusing on getting his shit together, not fucking - fucking sex.

 

 

"Sorry," he mutters, "been kinda busy."

 

 

"Clearly," she retorts.

 

 

They're caught in some sort of glaring contest, attempting to speak through expression.

 

 

Fortunately, blessedly, fucking fantastically Jack is a smart fucking guy because Mickey sees him give a short, friendly wave as he starts backing out of the apartment.

 

 

"I'll let you," and he gestures simply to them, giving an easy smile, "send me a carrier pigeon later, maybe? Nice meeting you, Mandy."

 

 

He doesn't wait around for a response, and the irritation Mickey had previously felt toward him dissipates.

 

 

When the door click shuts, Mandy rounds on him. The look she gives is so furious that Mickey almost backs up.

 

 

"Sponsor, huh," she comments, haughty and pissed off, "I thought you were - I was worried about you, you fucking asshole. Thought you might have fallen off the wagon, checked yourself back in. Thought you, ah."

 

 

She pauses, looking sad and guilty.

 

 

She thought he might have gone back to Ian.

 

 

It hurts, honestly fucking hurts, the expression on her face. Once upon a time, Mandy didn't have to worry about him like this - didn't have to hate Ian, her former friend, and it makes Mickey feel like his skin is inside out. Because of him, his shit, their shit, Mandy didn't get to keep a friend that was hers first.

 

 

"No," he assures her, "just uh."

 

 

"That fine ass dude," she says, attempting a grin; some of the tension in Mickeys spine loosens, "you sure that's. He cool?"

 

 

Her question is unspoken. Is it a good idea? Should he be doing it?

 

 

No, is the first answer his mind supplies, but he finds himself saying yes regardless.

 

 

"Yeah," he replies, breezy and casual, "he's cool."

 

 

A part of him thinks about his therapist, about how he always mentions reaching out when he's feeling weak. When he wants to be high, and, Mickey thinks - if he would talk about it - he would say when he wants to talk to Ian. But he doesn't, never does that, and instead of talking to his sponsor he fucks him and hopes that it's enough of a step forward.

 

 

"Come on," Mandy sighs finally, "buy a drink. I know that Thai place has bubble tea."

 

 

They talk about Jack a little bit more, vague and unassuming. There's not a whole lot he has to say on the matter, anyway, but thankfully Mandy doesn't push too far into detail.

 

 

As she's leaving, Mickey stops her to hug her in a way he hasn't in awhile. She pressed her nose to his cheek and holds him tightly.

 

 

"You look good," she murmurs, and for the first time in weeks he feels a little proud again.

 

 

\- - - - -

It's another three days before he manages to see Jack again. In that time, he gets a phone but realizes he doesn't actually have the other boys number. So he keeps it deactivated in a desk in his spare room and doesn't unwrap the charger.

 

 

Finally, he works up the nerve to call the tattoo shop Jack pierces at and let's himself be talked into accompanying him to his friends barbecue that evening.

 

 

"No booze," Jack promises, because Mickey isn't sure he's ready to be around those kind of parties, not just yet, "just a lot of lesbians and someone might play the ukulele."

 

 

"Oh fuck," Mickey teases, rolling his eyes even though he knows Jack can't see, "is this a queer as folk thing? Do I have to sign a petition?"

 

 

In his ear, Jacks laugh is noticeably fond, and Mickeys face drops, suddenly uncertain.

 

 

"Maybe you could just, come by after," he tries, one last time, but he already knows he lost. It's not fair, to have a one sided decision, to only see Jack behind the security of his own walls. Not when the other man is doing so much the rest of the time to help him, fucking become a functioning part of society again.

 

 

"I'd love for you to meet my friends," Jack says, sincere and determined, and he is instantly reminded of how sometimes he feels like he's back at square one. He almost wants to apologize. Say he's sorry he has nothing left to give, anymore, because someone else took it all.

 

 

He doesn't, though, instead he gives in and agrees and tries once more, like he does everyday, to do something good for someone.

 

 

\- - - - - -

His generosity, apparently, doesn't go unnoticed.

 

 

On the side of his friends street, in the relative dark, Jack fingers him brutally over the hood of his car. He laughs at Mickeys curses, hums happy and pleased at the smaller boys whines.

 

 

He fingers him till he comes, uses both hands to grab at his ass when he's finished.

 

 

"Wanna know you're stretched and open for me, while we're here," Jack says heatedly, and Mickey pants as the older man yanks his pants up and closes his jeans.

 

 

"Fuck," Mickey says, and stares openly as Jack adjusts himself through his pants.

 

 

"Come on," he urges, hand at the small of Mickeys back, and he allows it for an instance before stepping away.

 

 

Inside the house, someone is playing the ukelele and Mickey almost turns right the hell around. Bunch of goddamn hippies, is what Jack's friends are. Low seated couches, and pillows, fucking bean bag chairs are scattered all over the living room. There's not a television, but an impressive collection of instruments and along the walls photographs, and candle lights.

 

 

On a large bean bag, tucked into the corner there's a girl with long brown hair; she's stunning, pretty faced and comfortable in her skin in a way that even Mickey can admire. Beside her there's a paler girl with shorter, darker hair; she looks small and kind of like a shadow. The guy playing the ukulele is tattooed just as much as Jack, if not more so.

 

 

Stomach whirling, Mickey force himself to inch further into the room, but refuses to sit down when Jack motions for him to.

 

 

"Nah, I ah, bathroom," he mutters, suddenly feeling immensely uncomfortable. This was a bad idea, a bad fucking idea. What the fuck does he need to know these people for? They all recognized him, said hello like they were happy to fucking meet him. Like Jack's been talking about him to them.

 

 

Jack's looking at him with concern, even as he tells him where to go, and Mickey hates that he's so transparent. That everyone knows how he's not handling the situation well. That he's a gay fucking drug addict.

 

 

Locking himself in the bathroom, he grips the edge of the counter, looks himself in the eyes. He looks tense, jaw tight with how he's grinding his teeth; and his skin is pale, hallow with nerves. He laughs, short and mirthless, tightens his fingers on the counter until his knuckles are white.

 

 

They're just people - just. He's done this before, been to countless parties, even if he wasn't overly fond of them then, he managed. Usually with a beer, or some coke or whatever the fuck he could get his hands on. But he did it.

 

 

It's a few minutes before he's able to roll his shoulders back, trying to fit his bones, his muscles comfortably back into his skin. Vaguely, he can hear laughter, the front door opening.

 

 

Stepping out into the hallway, he pulls his sleeves over his hands, so they can't see how his fingers are still trembling and glances up at the end of the hall.

 

 

There's another girl walking in, a small, curvy thing with black and green hair, and fucking - cat ears? - and behind her is Lip.

 

 

"Mickey," Jack says, touching his elbow, and Mickey isn't breathing.

 

 

Lip is outright staring at him, looks disbelieving and is most likely standing just as still as Mickey is. Around them, everyone is moving and laughing and talking like nothing is fucking happening, like Mickey is not three seconds from vomiting, maybe ten from disappearing out the front fucking door.

 

 

"Lip," the cute girl, says, twisting around to touch his bicep, "that's the guy Jack's sponsoring now, Mickey."

 

 

Sheer terror is climbing Mickey's spine, and Lip is still fucking staring at him.

 

 

"Right," he finally says, after what seems like goddamn years, "Mickey, right. Hey, man."

 

 

It's not perfect, his attempt. Everything feels too weird now, too drawn out - the way they're just gaping at each other. His voice is too familiar when he says Mickey's name, like he's said it before tonight.

 

 

Mickey wants to leave, right fucking now. But if he leaves, it will be so painfully obvious, even more suspicious then it already is. Then Jack will ask questions, figure out that Mickey has been holding so much back from him, from therapy, the meetings. Will know Mickey is a liar, and isn't giving what he should be - that he's just waiting for the inevitable still.

 

 

Thankfully, the first girl he saw swoops in, starts talking animatedly about her yoga class from the morning and Jack's joining in, asking questions in the right places. He doesn't give Mickey a weird look when he sinks shakily onto the couch next to him, just smiles reassuringly.

 

 

The entire evening, Mickey spends practically jumping every time someone speaks to him, but he keeps his voice level when he answers and even manages to laugh a few times. Lip is only a bit better then him.

\- - - - - -

Around eight, he leaves despite Jack and - Stevie, he learns her name is - protests. Jack offers to leave with him, which is the last thing Mickey wants, but he tries to seem friendly and casual when he disregards him.

 

 

"Nah, its cool," he says, hand on the doorknob, "I'm gonna walk for a bit, maybe pick up a new phone from Walmart, or some shit. Since you and Mandy are such bullies about it."

 

 

At that, Jack's disappointment from his departure brightens, and he seems content with the answer.

 

 

He waves awkwardly, and when the door closes behind him he practically bolts. The hairs on the back of his neck are standing up, and he's half expecting to look behind him and find Lip following him. It's three blocks before he manages to get rid of the paranoia.

\- - - - - - -

 

 

In the shower, he doesn't cry, but his eyes sting and his tongue feels swollen.

 

 

In bed, he plugs the phone in and stares at the empty contacts list for he isn't sure how long, just looks and breathes and touches his chest where it hurts.

 

 

He thinks about Lip, about what Ian's brother must be thinking. Wonders if he's angry, or relieved like Mandy was a bit. Contemplates his luck, the shittiness of the universe, how it's always three steps forward, two steps back when it comes to his progress.

 

 

Obsesses over if it's another sign, another hint.

 

 

For the first time that day, his hands don't shake as he keys the numbers in on his contacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, and all. feedback really does encourage! see something wrong, let me know! like something in particular, I'd love for you guys to share. xoxo
> 
> Note: This chapter takes place before Ian's bit, obviously. So it's mid July now, for both of them. Next chapter will pick up after Ian stops by the Milkovich house.


	4. selfish and obscene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super pleased with this, because it feels so filler. I intended for so much more to happen in this chapter, but it didn't feel right. Alas, hope its semi enjoyable regardless.

Going to the Milkovich house had proven pointless, like Ian had figured it would be earlier that morning. But in the height of his attack, it had seemed plausible, even possible of getting some sort of answer.

 

 

  
Iggy had laughed in his face.

 

 

  
"Off my porch, Gallagher," he had leered, looking anything but sympathetic at Ian's trembling, "you don't wanna be here when Colin gets home."

 

 

  
At that time, Ian hadn't been above begging, despite knowing how much it would please Iggy to see. It was instinct, pure fucking need to know something, anything about how Mickey was doing, restraining order be damned. It only had two weeks left on it, anyway.

 

 

  
"I need to know," he pleaded, refusing to let Mickeys brother slam the door in his face, "please I just need to know he's okay."

 

 

  
Face hard, Iggy had oh so kindly informed him Mickey was doing just fine without him. Had managed to snag himself a hot sponsor that he was, apparently, boning.

 

 

  
At the confirmation, Ian promptly disappeared off the porch and managed to make it three blocks back to his house before he vomited all over some strangers yard.

 

 

\- - - - -

Quitting his job is more accidental, then intentional. He calls out for two shifts, unable to will himself the energy. By the third shift he just figures he's wasting their time, he didn't mean to get this low, certainly knows he can't afford to be without a job, but the idea of getting out of bed to get dressed and sit in a hospital for eight hours is exhausting.

 

 

Fiona is furious when she realizes; and her finding out was definitely not intentional. Ian knew the moment he hung up the phone with his boss the moment his sister discovered what he'd done, he would be in for it. Out of all of their siblings, Ian's always a steady income, even if his jobs weren't the greatest - he knew the daily grind. How to grin and bear it.

 

 

Except, when it came to one thing.

 

 

"Okay, Ian," she tries, going for reasonable and supportive sister role, "this has got to stop. It's been days. Moping isn't going to make you feel better. You need to get up."

 

 

Ian keeps his back to her, doesn't even acknowledge anything she says.

 

 

As far as he's concerned, she's a goddamn traitor. Thinking she always knows what's best for everyone in a situation because it makes her life easier. Told them all not to tell Ian, because it would upset the delicate balance of peacefulness she thought was happening in their home, for once.

 

 

"You wanna be mad at me?" She needles, placing a hand on his back, "Fine. Be mad. But stop screwing up your life for a guy that's moved on."

 

 

A guy. If Ian could feel anything other then lead in his skeleton, he would laugh. He knows she's just trying to get something, anything out of him. Fiona, in her own way and just like the rest of his siblings, loves Mickey. He's been apart of their lives for years, a part of their family. When he had cheated, it was Fiona who had dropped in on his ex to see how he was doing - before the whole breaking and entering fiasco.

 

 

One more attempt; Ian feels the bed shift when she sits down and the hand on his back curls more firmly around his side, "sweetface," she murmurs, resting her chin next on his shoulder, "I know you're hurting. I'm so sorry that -" for a second, her voice breaks, "I'm sorry."

 

 

Heart positively aching, Ian rolls away from her touch. Hearing his sister distraught over the fucked up that is him and Mickey is the last thing he needs right now. Just another reminder.

 

 

"Get out," he says listlessly, tugging at a thread from his sheet, "please get out."

 

 

"Ian -"

 

 

"Out." He repeats, more firmly, eyes stinging.

 

 

He hears her sigh, and her footsteps retreating to the door, "you have five days to get another job. If you don't, you're out. I've never let you waste away before in this house, and I won't start now."

 

 

The hinges groan as she closes the door, "Mickey never did either."

 

 

If he had one ounce of energy, he'd throw something at the door after her, just to make a point. Instead, he just curls tighter on himself and doesn't cry.

 

 

\- - - - - -

 

 

The deadline for his sister's ultimatum is just over forty eight hours away and Ian isn't one fraction closer to even attempting to get a job. He doesn't know fuck all about what he will do if she does kick him out, has blown off all of his booty calls for long enough now that a spare couch isn't likely. Despite his odds, he can't bring himself to care about it in the slightest.

 

 

He's consumed; a man possessed.

 

 

Everything makes him think about Mickey. Where he is, what he's doing, who he's fucking - god, who he's fucking. Mickey, his Mickey, is sleeping with another man. Spending the night in someone else's bed, someone else making him come.

 

 

At night, particularly, it torments him. Keeps him awake until all hours while he fantasizes darkly about what this other guy could be like. If he is as good looking as Ian, what they do together, if he can make Mickey quiver and beg like Ian can. Pure poison lurks in his mind and he's helpless to stop it, isn't sure if he even wants to.

 

 

Lip is only slightly more tolerable than Fiona, in that he pretty much avoids his brother just as much as Ian is avoiding him. He's still a shit talker, overhears him and Fiona, sometimes when he's snarking to Debbie. But when it's the two of them he's quiet, kind of cagey. If Ian weren't so angry, he would almost be curious about the lack of assaults from his brother. As it is, they keep themselves and coexist silently.

 

 

The afternoon is disgustingly hot - forces Ian to leave his self deemed barricade to venture downstairs when he's sure mostly everyone is gone. Lip will be back soon, but he should have enough time to get an ice pack and a glass of water.

 

 

Walking down the stairs is hard - his joints creak and ache from disuse, movements sluggish and heavy. He feels fatigued, from his lack of eating, but he can't stomach anything when his gut is filled with dread. The hunger is satisfying, in a way, a physical manifestation of his self loathing.

 

 

He deserves this, all of it, even if he wants it desperately any other way it's his fault. He pushed his gorgeous boy into doing this; karma at its finest. He had acted like a child; cheating on Mickey like that. In a fit of pettiness, like throwing a damn temper tantrum he had made the worst decision he had ever made all because he wanted to teach Mickey a lesson.

 

 

He realizes that now. He had been selfish, and obscene - going right for Mickey's jugular.

 

 

He just wishes he could tell him that. That he knows now and he's sorry; that he should have been there instead of trying to get even over something Mickey struggles to control.

 

 

Even at his worst, when he's nearly always high, functioning at a constant state of just too messed up Mickey has never cheated on him, not once. And what does Ian do? The one thing Mickey has asked him not to do - despite all their other drama - it's the one thing he's asked.

 

 

Behind him, the door opens as he's chugging his third glass of water. It's Lip, Ian can hear the voice of his brothers side piece while Amanda is away for the rest of the summer chatting aimlessly.

 

 

"It's not a fetish thing," she's huffing, rolling her eyes playfully when Ian turns around, "it's an art display. You know, like the ones in museums - oh, hello Ian!"

 

 

  
The smile she gives him is friendly and unassuming, just like it always is. Like if he were to not answer, just completely ignore her like he occasionally feels like doing out of spite, it wouldn't bother her in the least. Kind of a space case, Ians noticed, definitely more odd then his brother usually goes for. Radio silence has prevented Ian from learning more about where he found her.

 

 

"Hey," he responds evenly, though, and takes another sip just to have something to do.

 

 

  
"I need a second opinion, because Lip is an uncultured swine, apparently," she says, confident and teasing in a way he's never seen someone be with his brother, "my friend is having a soirée of sorts tonight for different body modificationists. Nothing weird, just people modeling their work."

 

 

  
Dully, but out of politeness, Ian nods, "yeah, I've been to something like that before."

 

 

  
Delighted, Olivia beams at him even wider - if possible - as she sets their groceries down on the dining room table, "See," she says, triumphant and elbowing Lip harshly, "they're real. Stop being so arrogant, or I'll take your brother as my date instead."

 

 

  
Snorting, Lip dismisses her, "Is that some sort of threat? Taking my gay brother?"

 

Maybe it's the heat, making him more irritable - most likely, it always has everyone on edge. But Ian thinks it may have something to do with days of the cold shoulder, that has him itching for a fight. Some reaction out of his sibling other than avoidance.

 

 

He finds himself saying, before he can stop himself, "I'll go with you."

 

 

  
For the first time since he's met her, he watches the girl struggle with how to react to him. It had irritated him at first, her relentless patience she seemed to have toward him, like she knew a thing or two about how to treat him. So seeing her falter is mildly rewarding, but less so then the flash of panic that comes over Lip's face.

 

 

  
He covers it quickly.

 

 

 

"Really," he deadpans, already moving around the kitchen to start putting things away. Ian makes no move to help. "Sure you won't burst into flame if you step outside of your fortress?"

 

 

  
It's a lame jab, nothing that would ordinarily be close to riling Ian up, but it feels like Lip is trying to diffuse a situation.

 

 

 

"Some fresh air might do me good," Ian replies, shrugging, "maybe I can scope out some spots to land myself some labor."

 

 

The tension in the air is nearly tangible, and Ian can tell Olivia can tell. She looks considering, maybe just the slightest uneasy. Perhaps like she wants to comment on it, but realizes she would be overstepping boundaries.

 

 

 

"My friend Stevie is going to be there tonight," she ventures, handing Lip groceries over the counter, "she's got an opening at her shop. An erotica place. I could introduce you guys."

 

 

  
She's eyeing Lip carefully, clearly reading his body language, but Ian feels devilishly delighted at his brother's blinding discomfort.

 

 

 

"See," Ian says, baring his teeth in what could be considered a grin, but is mostly a snarl, "it'd be an opportunity. Two birds, one stone. I join the living, maybe find a potential job."

 

 

 

"I think there are other things you're more qualified to do," Lip objects, "then working in a sex shop."

 

 

  
Shrugging, Ian grabs an apple out of Lip's hand and takes a bite, "Maybe, but I got two days to start somewhere."

 

 

  
"Ian," his brother starts again, this time seeming just as prickled as Ian feels, "you don't need a handout, you need -"

 

 

 

"It's not a handout," Olivia interrupts, narrowing her eyes, "if anything it's more of a favor for my own friend. Save her the hassle of interviewing a bunch of randos."

 

 

  
"Right," Lip says, voice steely, "because Ian isn't a random person to her."

 

 

  
"I think she trusts the people I spend my time with," she replies coolly, and Ian is nearly impressed with how Olivia seems to square up against Lip. "Unless she shouldn't be."

 

 

  
"I'm saying," he presses, testily, "that maybe this business isn't yours and you shouldn't just -"

 

 

Okay, fuck him, Ian decides.

 

 

 

"Funny," he starts, grabbing an apple off the counter and making his way toward the steps, "I don't think where I find a job is any of your business either." He glances over his shoulder and forces a pathetic smile - something, he notices, he hasn't done in quite awhile, "let me know when I should be ready by."

 

 

  
"Sure, Ian," she says, almost affectionately, "I will."

 

 

  
Whatever she starts to say to Lip when he disappears up the stairs, Ian doesn't hear, pointedly ignores in fact. Fuck Lip, and fuck Fiona. Always trying to act like they know what's best for him.

 

 

  
Slumping back down onto his mattress, he crawls back into his Mickey hole and thinks he might even regret agreeing to go out that night. It's appealing, to wallow in the world his self loathing has created for him - a mixture of memories and daydreams and nightmares.

 

 

  
\- - - - - -

It's a struggle, definitely, to get ready for the evening. Ian hasn't gone out somewhere in months, doesn't like to anymore when he doesn't have anyone to go with him. It's a security thing, his psychiatrist has said, to need validation that the general public thinks he's normal if he looks like he has a relationship. If only the general public really knew.

 

 

 

Admittedly, showering had felt nice. After a couple of days of sweat and laying in one's own filth, it's good to know that even though he doesn't really feel like it, he can still be a functioning part of society. Or, at least smell like he is. He doesn't spend too much time worrying on what to wear, if Olivia's anything to go by her friends are probably just as off the beaten path as she is, or whatever and he doubts he needs to wear a suit to get a position in a sex shop.

 

 

 

Still, he settles for a dark blue button up and a pair of grey jeans and calls it a day.

 

 

 

When he goes downstairs, Lip is waiting for him alone, and Ian briefly entertains the idea Lip managed to convince Olivia to go without them. His meddling siblings, always thinking they can step in and decide whatever they want; it's no wonder Lip and Fiona fight all the goddamn time, they're the same fucking person.

 

 

  
"Ian," he starts, pushing off the counter, fingers loosely curled around his beer, "maybe you should rethink this. What about dispatching? Didn't that one guy, what's his name, say -"

 

 

 

"Need a change," he dismisses, not wanting to mention that the guy was Mickey's connection, and now he has no way of getting in touch with him. With either of them.

 

 

  
His hands tremble, just a bit.

 

 

 

"I don't think this is really your scene," Lip tries again, from a different angle.

 

 

  
Snorting, Ian raises his eyebrows, "You don't think-" he says, sardonic and disbelieving, "brother, I have a feeling this is more my scene then yours, if we are going by middle school standards."

 

 

  
"Damnit, Ian," he finally barks, slamming his bottle down and taking an aggressive step forward, "for once would you just - you can't go. Don't fucking go."

 

 

  
"If you wanted me to trust you more often," he sneers, heading toward the front door, "maybe you all shouldn't have lied to me, I don't know."

 

 

  
The wood creaks ominously behind him as he slams it shut.

 

 

 

\- - - - - -

  
Admittedly, the event does look a bit more fetish-y then Ian was expecting; lots of dim light and weird costumes on the models. It's quiet though, easy, and there's no bar which Ian's surprised about. Not that he'd drink, obviously, but it would perhaps distract his brother some.

 

 

  
Lip will not leave him the fuck alone.

 

 

  
"Dude," he says testily, "you need to back off."

 

 

  
"Just hangin' out, man," he replies easily, shrugging his shoulders like he's not being a hovering fucking freak.

 

 

  
Ian starts to retort, something along the lines of Lip kindly fucking the fuck off, seriously, but Lip isn't listening anymore. In fact, he's staring so hard over his left shoulder in a way that makes the hair on the back of Ian's neck raise.

 

 

  
"What," he asks, but turns around to look anyway, searching. Realistically, it could be anybody, any number of people in their lives could call for that expression his brother is wearing. Grim, but accepting; ready for the destruction that follows.

 

 

But - a part of Ian hopes.

 

 

He glances around, near frantic, trying to chase that feeling he had a moment ago. Like, he knew, he fucking knew. Like he could practically smell him.

 

 

  
All he sees though, is Olivia greeting a couple that walks in - both undeniably attractive. Suddenly, she's gesturing toward Ian and his brother, and Ian tells himself he's not disappointed, because really, he's just scrambling at this point. Why would Mickey be here, of all fucking places.

 

 

  
Fuck, he's pathetic.

 

 

  
Forcing what he hopes is a convincing smile as the three of them walk over - he can't be sure though, his face feels mechanical. Beside him, Lip is still just staring.

 

 

  
"This is Ian," Olivia's saying, "Lip's brother."

 

 

  
"Stevie," she introduces herself, then bumps her shoulder against the guy standing behind her, "and this is Jack. We heard you're looking for some dirty work."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS COMING, I PROMISE. JUST STAY WITH ME. 
> 
>  
> 
> I'm so sorry, I know it's like the biggest tease ever. But it's going to happen, so soon. I swear.
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO. I felt like I wanted to give semi ideas to what my OCs look like cause I'm a lame dork. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> https://goo.gl/images/2kYWf9 - Jack
> 
> https://goo.gl/images/IZq8px - Stevie
> 
> https://goo.gl/images/AknxIS - Olivia


	5. monster, how should I feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be a second part to this chapter, still in Mickey's POV. I was just too excited to get this up.

**August**

 

 

 

 

 

If Jack has noticed the giant step back Mickey has taken, he hasn't mentioned it.

 

 

It's equal parts relieving and unnerving.

 

 

Suddenly, he's hitting the ring five days a week, practicing vigorously. Even manages to catch the attention of a coach at the gym, who seemed impressed. Monday's belong to Mandy, which Jack even laughed fondly at that when Mickey said no one of the first times.

 

 

So, yeah. Mild avoidance. And if he started going to work earlier it's for the extra hours, not as an excuse to not be out late.

 

 

Jack merely continues to invite him out, undeterred; responds just as lewdly to Mickey's dirty texts and gives it as good as always he always has in bed.

 

 

Which is where he currently is on his Friday night, strewn across Jack's lap with his pants yanked down just over his ass.

 

 

"You really like having your ass played with, don't you?" Jack breathes, dark eyes and approving.

 

 

A part of Mickey wants to roll his eyes, make a snarky comment about how it sure as fuck seems like he likes it, doesn't it? But he refrains, let's Jack have his way like this. It's the least he can do.

 

 

Not that it's all bad, Jack is a kinky motherfucker and when he really gets into his lets talk shop the end results can leave Mickey gasping.

 

 

"Feels good," he murmurs, grinning lazy with his cheek pressing against the mattress.

 

 

Jack's got three fingers inside of him, fingering him languidly, pressing deep and steady. Every so often he will drizzle more lube over his fingers, keeping him so slick. He is really taking his time working him open and in his pleasures half delirious mind Mickey wonders if the other man is making a point.

 

 

  
And when Jack finally fucks him he's so wound up all he can manage is to whine steadily with his teeth clenching around his sheets. Behind him, Jack laughs, runs a hand up his spine. It's easy, to just focus on this. This he can do, this he can be there for.

 

 

\- - - - -

Like ritual, Jack asks him to come to some concert the following evening, when he's out of work. Mickey's not really listening, minutes away from passing out on his bed even as Jack gets dressed behind him.

 

 

A part of him feels grateful he doesn't have to ask.

 

 

"Cant," he just barely mumbles, blindly wrapping his comforter around himself, "got the kid tomorrow."

 

 

There's a stretch of time where it's so quiet Mickey thinks he's fallen asleep and Jack's left. So when the other man speaks it feels almost like falling off a cliff and his body jerks.

 

 

"Ah, thanks for sharing with the group," he says, so evenly that even in his near slumber, body struggling to stay awake, Mickey knows vaguely that something is wrong, "see ya next week."

 

 

Something is, he should really - Mickey tries to push himself up, but his bones feel heavy and hollow at the same time and it's a matter of seconds before he's asleep.

 

 

\- - - - -

  
At breakfast, Svetlana watches him steadily.

 

 

He interacts only with Yevgeny, talking to him aimlessly, answering all of his unending questions about how noise comes from the radio, and why is the sky never green. He doesn't look his ex wife in the eye, nor does he reach for his phone that remains completely silent in his pocket.

 

 

Earlier that morning was pretty shitty, he'll admit. Realizing what he had done, running his big stupid fucked out mouth pissed him off to no end. Stupid, fucking stupid. He swore he used to be better at this, the hiding, keeping his tracks covered and his personal shit fucking private. Used to have all that buried six feet fucking under miles away from his his own damn heart, and especially his fucking mouth.

 

 

He only texted twice; just a good morning, then a I'd like to talk. He won't apologize like that, not in some desperate message like he doesn't have to fucking explain himself. He'll leave it up to Jack, but he won't chase him.

 

 

Probably for the best anyway.

 

 

Svetlana's eyes are hard, and relentless, even when they get to the park and Mickey watches intently as Yev climbs the steps to the slide.

 

 

"You see him?" She finally asks, blunt and to the point. Like everyone always is, because they don't trust him. They have no reason to.

 

 

"No," he answers quickly, flicking his gaze to hear briefly, but seriously, "no, fuck, I haven't."

 

 

"But you want to," she accuses, grabbing his forearm.

 

 

"Fuck off," he snarls, snatching his arm back, "has nothing to fucking do with -" his throat catches, and he feels humiliated. Can't even fucking say his name. "Ain't got shit to do with that. It's uh, somethin else."

 

 

Even more embarrassed, he scratches the back of his neck.

 

 

She hands him her half smoked cigarette, not looking at him when she starts talking, "You are better, like this. Less piece of shit. Do not be stupid."

 

 

Taking a long drag, he squints his eyes, watches his son climb across three monkeybars. He wants to say, I won't, but all he can manage is an, "I'll try."

  
\- - - - - -

Around two, Mickey walks them home and starts walking in the opposite direction of his apartment. He's not actually sure he's going to go through with it, just show up at Jack's job like this - it's way too much of a gesture, the exact fucking opposite of what he's spent the last week and a half trying to accomplish. But there's some truth in what Svetlana said, dumb bitch, because that stunt he just pulled is an old habit. An addict habit.

 

 

Halfway there he nearly talks himself out of it at least a hundred times. It can wait until Tuesday, it's not that big of a deal. They aren't fucking married, aren't even fucking boyfriends.

 

 

Jack's sat next to him every Tuesday evening for two months.

 

 

"Fuck," he hisses, digging his palms into his forehead as he paces back and forth on the sidewalk, just a half block away now. It's hot as fucking hell, he's sweating like a goddamn pig. Disgusting. He didn't bring anything with him; flowers would have been too gay, no damn way would he do that, but coffee maybe? Something, anything that could say he's not as much of an unobservant asshole as he seems right now.

 

 

Just a few yards now, right past his friend's sex shop and then he's just gotta pull open the door and - and what? He feels like he's breathing hard, has no fucking idea what he's doing, has not a damn -

 

 

If Mickey hadn't fucking come, if he had taken the left five blocks back and came down this street from the other direction, if he had fucking blinked the instance he walked past the shop, he would have missed it. Would have missed him.

 

 

Ian.

 

 

A hysterical sound, a laugh maybe, tears out of his throat; he's absolutely helpless to stop it, any of it. The way his body sways, feeling boneless, shuddery. How he has to stagger to place his hands against his knees, unable to look away as Ian stands at the check out counter, chatting animatedly as if Mickey isn't standing seven yards away from him, about to pass the fuck out.

 

 

And just like every time before, something in his useless, pathetic heart reaches up, sharp clawed and terrible. Excitement. Thrill. Somehow, again, he's here, they're here. Four damn months later, sheer coincidence.

 

 

Fuck, fuck.

 

 

There's a whisper at the back of his skull, telling him to move, to walk the fuck away now. He still has time, Ian hasn't seen him yet, doesn't know he's here. He can turn the hell around and get out of this, call Mandy with his shaking fucking hands and have her come over, or one of his brothers if she's not around. He can go into the tattoo shop right next door and ask for his sponsor, tell him he's thinking about using again.

 

 

Louder, is the murmur in the front of his skull, telling him he's just trying to catch his breath, get his footing back and that's why he's still standing there. That he just needs another minute, and then he'll leave.

 

 

As soon as he straightens his spine, Ian tilts his head slightly at something Jack's fucking friend is apparently saying and looks right the fuck at him.

 

 

The way Ian's whole expression changes makes Mickey quake. Like a predator spotting his prey, primal fucking instinct of an animal with marked territory.

 

 

Mickey watches, dumbstruck, as Ian starts nodding quickly, too quickly, distracted. He's signing papers, glancing out the front window of the shop obsessively.

 

 

Panicking, he takes a few steps back, heavy footed and clumsy. The sun is still blazing, but he feels chilled to his core. Out of sight, he tells himself, don't let her see you.

 

 

A louder whisper; go, go now. Run. You still can, you can still run.

 

 

A few feet away, a bell chimes.

 

 

"Mickey," he positively growls; breathless and disbelieving, completely fucking amazed. Mickey knows, he can tell; he can feel it too.

 

 

The minute Ian's hands are around his arms, he's sure he blacks out, because when he can focus again they're standing off in the alley and Ian's touching him everywhere. His wrists, shoulders. Sliding along his sides, curving around his hips; up to his throat, cupping his face.

 

 

Ian's crying, kind of; babbling nonsensically, at least Mickey thinks so because he can't hear past his heartbeat in his eardrums and can't comprehend anything past all the places their bodies are touching. How his hands are gripping at Ian's shirt.

 

 

He's hallucinating, he has to be fucking hallucinating.

 

 

"Mickey, Mick," Ian says his name like a prayer, and Mickey trembles under it.

 

 

"Ian," he gasps, and the irony is not lost on him. That the first time he says Ian's name in months it's too him. Like he'd been fucking waiting.

 

 

"Missed you, missed you so fucking much," he murmurs so hotly in Mickey's ear, nosing along his jaw, inhaling deeply, "I've been." He stops, shuddering, and the space he gives Mickey when he backs up just a step feels like a rush of fresh air.

 

 

Mickey forces another inch, because he can't fucking think when Ian's all over him like that, never can. But he needs to think right now, he needs to get a fucking handle on this and stop shaking like a fucking bitch.

 

 

"What the fuck," he wheezes, swiping a hand over his face compulsively, anxiously, "what the fuck are you doing here, Ian?"

 

 

Ian makes a sharp sound when Mickey says his name, and he tries reaching out again. Mickey shakes his head, holds his hands up.

 

 

"Let me fucking, just hold the fuck on, man," he says, and it's hard to make himself look anywhere but Ian.

 

 

Because Ian doesn't, he doesn't look good.

 

 

Not - no, of course he looks good - could never not. Tall and overwhelming and handsome as fuck, the man of Mickey's fucking dreams, his goddamn nightmares.

 

 

But Mickey can see it, the shadows in his skin, the sharp dips of his skeleton that jut out more then they should. He's low, he's not taking care of himself and every instinct in Mickey is aching to assess and act. Put Ian first.

 

 

Willpower, Mickey is discovering, is a fleeting thing.

 

 

"What are you doing here?" He repeats, firmer this time, gripping tight on his resolve.

 

 

"Job," Ian replies, "got a job there, needed one or Fiona was gonna boot me."

 

 

"What happened to the hospital?" Mickey questions, sharp and concern bleeding through just a bit. That was a good job, benefits and shit.

 

 

"Quit," and he looks ashamed, but honest, "wasn't. Ah."

 

 

Mickey gets it, he really fucking does. They start to fall apart, without each other. Always have.

 

 

Except, this time, Mickey hasn't quite. It hasn't been as fast, and he thought maybe.

 

 

Then what are the fucking odds, Ian getting a job right next door to where his. Where Jack works, at the shop his friend owns.

 

 

Cosmic; fucking supernatural.

 

 

Around the corner, Mickey twitches when he realizes he can hear Stevie's voice - probably on the phone, he can't hear anyone else. But it snaps him more back into reality, and he panics, just a bit.

 

 

"We need to," he grunts, chancing a peek at Ian's face, "gotta go."

 

 

There isn't a doubt on Ian's face; and if Mickey had maybe gotten a bit stronger he would be pissed that Ian knows he's going with. That he isn't swayed at all that the past four months Mickey hasn't talked to him and should take it as a sign. That the fact there's still an active restraining order should be a damn hint.

 

 

As it is, however, Mickey is proving him right with every step he takes that he allows Ian to follow. How he makes room for Ian to get into the cab with him, then the elevator to his apartment.

 

 

When he closes the door behind them, that's when he finally falls to his knees.

 

 

There's no way he could tell how long it's been since he first saw Ian in the shop; feels like hours, days, years. Like no time passed at all. He sobs, wrecked and exhausted, on the floor of his living room while Ian gathers him up, carrying him to his bedroom. When they settle onto the mattress, Mickey gulps noisily, wetly into the fabric of Ian's tshirt. Shoves pitifully at his arms as they curl around him, holding him close, but does nothing to move away.

 

 

Above him, Ian sighs his named again, wounded and so gorgeous; and Mickey knows that he's been waiting too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, kind of hectic. But I wanted to focus on just how one tracked they are when it comes to each other. I know Ian's the one who has been more stuck in his everyday life, but I wanted yall to realize the severity of where Mickey is at still, too.


	6. side to side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mention of rape

Mickey's coaxed awake by warm hands; on his jaw, stroking his face.

 

 

"Mick," Ian hums, quiet and gentle, "get up, come with me," more petting, insistent, "gotta go get my meds, c'mon."

 

 

"Times'it?" He garbles, knocking Ian’s hands away and twisting further into the mattress.

 

 

"Around seven," Ian responds, reaching for Mickey's sides instead. Slotting his fingers in the spaces between his ribcage. "You slept a couple of hours."

 

 

His brain is slowly registering what's happening as he starts to wake up. Ian, Ians here in his bed, they ran into each other earlier. Ian needs his medicine, right. Most likely he's asking Mickey to go with him so that he isn't let out of his sight.

 

 

"Cabinet, in the bathroom. Top left."

 

 

Top left; Trileptal, Abilify, and fish oil. Two months ago, he had considered throwing them out during one of his bad nights. The craving had been overwhelming, to go out and get high, and he had paced his apartment for hours - angry and angsty and crawling out of his skin. It had felt good, relieving almost, to think about flushing those fucking pills.

 

 

Ultimately, they were brand name, fucking expensive. And the Trileptal had been a victory; a milder medication than Lithium. No more monthly blood tests, a less aggressive treatment.

 

 

The bed dips as Ian gets off it, still touching, smoothing a hand through Mickey's hair. He keeps his eyes shut, feeling drained.

 

 

He's so tired still, so damn tired; he's not ready to do this yet. Hasn't even really processed it. A couple of more hours of sleep would do.

 

 

It takes Ian a couple of minutes to come back and when he does Mickey rolls half of his body over the redhead, practiced and habitual despite still being mostly asleep. Ian gets the shakes, for a bit right after.

 

 

Ian curls an arm around his lower back, shifting him more comfortably; closer.

 

 

\- - - - - - - - - -

  
When Mickey wakes up again there's noise coming from his kitchen and his bed is empty. It smells warm in his apartment, which sounds weird, but it's the first thing that comes to his sleep addled mind.

 

 

His chest cavity feels hollow and filled to the brim at the same time. He contemplates as he swipes a hand over his face. Ians in his kitchen, clearly making himself comfortable and at home the only way you can when you have loved someone for ten years. Regardless of what your relationship status is. The thought makes him roll over onto his side, curling in on himself before he forces himself off of the mattress and to his feet.

 

 

At some point during his sleep Ian must have undressed him. He's down to only his boxers, but the implication of staying like this speaks volumes Mickey isn't sure he's ready to play for his ex yet. So he throws on a pair of sweats and a tank top and heads down the hall.

 

 

In his kitchen, Ian is cooking - grilled cheeses from the looks of it and the knot in his stomach churns at the familiarity of it all. Ten years, four months, all the time in the world and seeing Ian will never not leave him breathless, for better or worse. He curls his hands around his elbows, hunching his shoulders. It's not awkward, necessarily, it stopped being awkward who knows how fucking long ago but the weight of it all never stops seeming like stone.

 

 

"Hey," he says, scratching his skin absently. Ian glances over his shoulder adoringly, giving him a blinding smile that leaves Mickey feeling helpless.

 

 

"Hey you," he calls back, sliding the sandwiches onto two plates before crossing the kitchen to set them down, one in front of Mickey the other for himself. There's a counter in between them; it feels like miles away and no distance at all.

 

  
Truthfully, Mickey’s been waiting - he's always waiting, every time. Whether it be days, weeks, months. Granted, this time around has been a longer stretch of time since their first couple of tries when he went into juvie, or when Ian disappeared when he got sick and Mickey had a baby. That was when they were kids still, when Mickey was still terrified of his father, of his sexuality. Of the power Ian held over him, even if the other boy hadn't realized it just yet.

 

 

Being clean this time around though had given him some control back. However, even if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. Trying a bit of it out with sleeping with someone else, developing a routine, holding a steady job. Finding Ian again, or Ian finding him or that goddamn kismet shit Ian used to prattle on about, manic and romantic - it's actually leaving him scrambling, a little bit.

 

 

"Nice digs you got here," Ian comments in between bites, but he hasn't stopped looking at Mickey once.

 

 

Shrugging, Mickey picks at his crust, "parole officer hooked it up, family friend or some shit."

 

 

"Nice of her," he replies and dumps his plate in the sink, rinsing it off.

 

 

"Ian," Mickey starts, then stops, closing his mouth.

 

 

"Need to borrow your phone," Ian keeps talking, casual, like he's got it from here, "gotta let someone know where I am."

 

 

Immediately, Mickey can feel the color leave his face, the way his insides coil tight in panic.

 

 

"You sure that's a good idea?"

 

 

Ian frowns, reaching up to touch his own shoulder; Mickey follows the movement.

 

 

"Why wouldn't it be?" He asks carefully, raising an eyebrow.

 

 

"Just ah, the restraining order."

 

 

Laughter rumbles in Ian’s throat, and he quirks an eyebrow, amused. "What, are you going to tell on me again?"

 

 

  
Mickey feels a little bit embarrassed. It hadn't been one of his finest moments, getting the cops involved like that. He had just needed Ian to go away, just for a bit, to let him fucking breathe. He was always so much; sometimes, too much.

 

 

  
"Nah, no, I just mean maybe we should talk first, or some shit. Your family gets kinda.."

 

 

  
He gestures, vague and slightly uncomfortable.

 

 

  
There's still that unimpressed expression on Ian’s face, like he's just indulging in Mickey now. It makes Mickey bristle, annoyed. Ian’s not taking him seriously, because nothing has fucking changed for him. Because he's been. Fucking. Waiting.

 

 

  
"What I'm fuckin’ saying is I don't want you to tell them."

 

 

  
That gets his attention; he frowns, like he's confused.

 

 

“Why?”

 

 

  
“I want to talk to you,” he repeats, and tries to keep his voice firm, tries not to let his uncertainty bleed through. For Ian, he’s weak, so damn weak.

 

 

  
“Okay,” Ian says, slowly, appearing just as unsure now. “What do you want to talk about? I know it's been a while, but I'm really happy to see you, Mick, I missed -"

 

 

“We should wait,” he blurts, steeling himself. “I want to wait.”

 

 

“Wait?” Ian echoes, dumbly, and there’s the laughter again. “Wait to tell my siblings? I’m pretty sure your brothers are gonna kick my ass way before my sister reams you out.”

 

 

Shaking his head he thumbs his lip, not meeting Ian’s eyes. “Nah, I meant - about getting back together, I’m,” the words are so hard to say, stumbling in his mouth like he’s drunk. Words he’s never said before, like a foreign fucking language.

 

 

“Mickey,” Ian says, rounding the counter to eliminate the distance between them, and he’s extending his hands toward Mickey; probably not even conscious of it.

 

 

"Don't touch me, Ian." Mickey says, taking a step back. “You know I can't -"

 

 

"You're saying no to me," Ian replies, flat and disbelieving. "You're. You are saying no. You don't want to be with me."

 

 

Terror squeezes at Mickey's spine, and he feels ill hearing it said out loud like that. Never - not wanting to be with Ian? How could he, how could he ever fucking think that? How could he fucking think for one fucking second that Mickey didn't want to?

 

 

Of course he goddamn wants to. He can't remember anything before wanting Ian, not a single fucking thing. Ian set him free; there isn't life before Ian because Ian taught him how to live. Mickey knows this, feels it down to his bone marrow; he will never love someone the way he loves Ian - not his sister, not even his child.

 

 

  
For ten years, he's been an addict. Even before he started popping pills, he's been using. Anything and everything involving Ian fucking Gallagher, he's been addicted to. Craved, fiended for, fucking needed.

 

 

The ugly truth is, Mickey doesn't know how to live _without_ Ian.

 

 

  
"No," he says quickly, alarmed, "no that's not what I am saying. Ian, no."

 

 

"Really," Ian retorts, distraught, "because that's what I am fucking hearing. You saying we shouldn't get back together - "

 

 

  
"Right now," he interrupts, pathetic, "I am just saying right now, Ian."

 

 

"So when?" Ian goads, face like thunder. His hands are everywhere - running through his hair, gripping the counter, constantly moving, reaching out. He's agitated, clearly, trying to grasp at something his entire body seems to be trying to reject. "In a few days? A week? Four more goddamn months? An _entire year_?"

 

 

Mickey can't fucking think like this; can hardly fucking breathe. Every word Ian says has him scrambling, desperate to soothe and placate both Ian, and the ache inside his body that's screaming for him to stop, to take it back.

 

 

Then there's Ian, at his side in seconds; palms cupping his cheeks, shoulders, arms pulling him closer.

 

 

  
"Do you understand," Ian pleads, touching him fucking everywhere, "do you understand, Mick? I can't do that, that can't happen. Don't make me wait longer, all this time I've been missing you, missing us. I can't let you leave again."

 

 

That word; _us._

 

 

  
Forcing himself to take deep, shuddering breaths, Mickey grabs Ian's hands, stilling them. Every part of him is begging to give in; every synapse, cell, and instinct. Saying no to Ian goes against his fucking DNA, he fucking swears.

 

 

Except. He can't.

 

 

Except he can't do that, not this time - something has to be different this time. He doesn't mean forever, he doesn't mean that he doesn't love Ian or need Ian, but he has to have those things differently this time. Not instinct, not pure fucking need. Not a gut reaction to withdrawal.

 

 

"It won't happen," he hears himself say, and it's the first sure thing he's said this whole time, he swears to fucking god. "That will never happen."

 

 

Suddenly, Ian's across the room, pacing.

 

 

"Is it because of that other guy?" He snarls, and Mickey's blood turns to ice.

 

 

"What?"

 

 

"The other guy!" Ian barks, accusing, "the other guy you're fucking, Mickey. Is this because of him, is he fucking telling you - are you choosing him over me?"

 

 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Anxiety is gripping at his skin, his throat. How does he fucking know? Is that why he got the job, down by the studio - has he been fucking -

 

 

"No," Mickey replies instantly, and this time it's him reaching for Ian, arms outstretched like he's easing a restless animal, "no, he has nothing to do with this. I'm doing this for me. For us. Ian, I'm fucking, I'm fucking sick right now. I need to do this, man. I need to be clean for awhile, get my shit together. I almost went to fucking prison, I -"

 

 

He chokes, swallowing hard - _I almost died. I almost died because of you; you almost fucking killed me._

 

 

  
"You're doing this for us?" He sneers, taking two antagonizing steps, "You're fucking some other guy for us? Bullshit, that's fucking bullshit and you know it. Who is he, Mickey? Who the fuck is he?"

 

 

It's fleeting, but there's a wash of relief. Ian doesn't know who it is, hasn't been following him, or Jack or some crazy shit like that.

 

 

"None of your fucking business," Mickey snaps, flexing his hands in anticipation.

 

 

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

 

 

Mickey can hear in Ian's tone, the sharp edge of it, how it’s uncontrolled and teetering just on dangerous, "He has fuck all to do with this, this is all me, Ian."

 

 

"How long have you been fucking him?" He presses, eyes wild. When it comes to this, Ian is relentless, sinks his teeth in and locks his jaw. He carries an intense amount of pride, and possession over the fact he is pretty much Mickey's _One_ and _Only_. If Mickey had seen Ian jealous before - just over the paranoid notion of someone else merely wanting Mickey it’s got nothing on this; pure, unadulterated, ugly as fuck rage.

 

 

  
"Doesn't fucking matter, did you not just fucking hear me? I'm asking for this, Ian, just me. I'm asking you for this, fucking please."

 

 

“Think about what you're fucking saying, Mickey," Ian warns, "you better think about what you're saying."

 

 

The darkness in his voice carries the weight of an underlying threat - you may not like what happens, Mickey knows this part well; the manipulation. He's done it a few times himself, playing on Ian's jealousy when it suited him, or distancing himself to make Ian doubt their relationship.

 

 

  
"You fuckin' _cheated_ on me, Ian."

 

 

Mickey's voice is quiet, but shattering - probably sounds like his heart fucking breaking all over again. It's so still, after he says it. Like somebody pressed pause, because Mickey can't even hear his own breathing. It's the first time he's said it to Ian like that.

 

 

Dropping his head forward, Mickey presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, rubbing harshly. Vaguely, he thinks his eyes might feel wet.

 

 

"Mick," Ian starts, and it sounds like his own heart is breaking right over the pile of Mickey's on the floor, "baby, I'm so sorry. I am so fucking sorry."

 

 

  
Yeah, Mickey knows he's sorry. Knew it that day, that moment Ian told him about it and his whole face went white while he struggled to keep himself standing. The air had been knocked from his lungs; and something else, something deeper and that you couldn't really see, or touch but fucking Ian took it out of him right then, in their bedroom, ripped it right the fuck out.

 

 

Ian could see, Mickey's knows, could see the giant, gaping wound he had just caused; even before Mickey told him to get out. And especially in the days where Ian stalked him afterward, trying to talk to him, apologize, grovel for forgiveness. How he stood outside their apartment door for hours, knocking and begging and screaming until a neighbor called the cops and Mickey filed for the restraining order. He was real fucking sorry then, too.

 

 

"I know," he says thickly, "I know you are sorry. I'm sorry, too. We are always fucking sorry Ian. That's my fucking point. I don't want to just be sorry and be with you, I want to _forgive_ you and be with you."

 

 

  
It takes the last shreds of his willpower to say all of that. The last vertebrae in his fucking backbone, but he says it. He says what everyone has been encouraging him to talk about for months to the one person he actually has to say it to. It feels liberating, just like that first gasp of air when you've been suffocating, adrenaline rushing.

 

 

And yet, he knows he's still trying to give something of himself to Ian, is telling him take it, if you'll have it. Because it's still yours.

 

 

  
For what it's worth, Ian seems less distressed, if only just a bit. Still, he's shaking his head as he backs toward the door, "What are you," he pauses, making a helpless sound, "what are you doing. I can't - I can't even look at you right now."

 

 

  
He should have known his barely there resolve wouldn't stop Ian from being able to hurt him.

 

 

  
"I have to leave," but there's something jumpy about him and Mickey knows he's mostly talking to himself at this point, "I have to leave, I can't fucking do this shit right now."

 

 

  
It hurts more; Ian leaving. Ian's really good at leaving.

 

 

  
The door clicks open and Ian doesn't look at him. It clicks shut and he's gone.

 

  
\- - - - - - -

  
Mickey isn’t really sure just where he’s going. He's been awake all night walking the city.

 

 

  
He’s never been to Jack’s place, always declined the invitation to come over, so he never had to decline the invitation to stay. It had been easier that way.

 

 

  
Now his hands are trembling and he’s smoked six cigarettes in the past twenty minutes. Now he wishes he had asked, at least once.

 

 

  
“Please pick up,” he finds himself saying, listening as the call rings and rings, “come on, fuck.”

 

 

  
He’s by the studio now; at the very least he knows that Jack lives by his job, in some sort of direction. Briefly, he entertains the idea of asking someone from the shop, but dismisses the idea when he considers what he must look like right now. Like a fucking junkie.

 

 

  
Two more calls, then a third, and Mickey hasn’t felt this panicked since Ian disappeared that one time; with Yevgeny.

 

 

“Mickey?”

 

 

  
For a second, he barely registers that Jack picked up finally.

 

 

  
“Mickey,” Jack says again, “are you okay? You called a lot - I’m sorry, I didn’t have my phone, is everything alright?”

 

 

  
He doesn’t sound angry, just concerned; Mickey doesn’t deserve it, not at all, but he will take it because it’s there. It’s been there, for the past four months, and he’s stepped over and around it, around him.

 

 

  
“Can uh,” and for the first time that night, Mickey thinks he sounds weak, “can we talk?”

 

 

  
\- - - - -

 

 

Outside, it’s damp and sticky, but the air conditioning in the diner they go to leaves Mickey shivering. Jack orders him a hot tea, because he can’t manage to look at the waitress. When he grips the cup, he’s surprised by how cold his hands are.

 

 

  
Jack doesn't waste any time, asks him right away if he's used, or thinking about using. It makes sense, the question, he is Mickey's sponsor. A sponsor he never utilizes except in bed. Of course he wouldn't ask about anything else because Mickey's never told him.

 

 

  
Mickey makes a face, pulling the mug closer to his body. He fucking wishes. He wishes that that’s what this was, that all it chalked up to was the desire to get high off drugs. Then it would at least be something tangible, something that could be explained as an illness, pure chemical reaction to a physical need.

 

 

  
Instead, he’s saying, “I have a son, because I knocked up the girl my dad had like, fuckin rape me or some shit. Or I raped her, I don’t know. We were both held at gunpoint.”

 

 

  
And Ian was there, sitting on the couch, fucking watching - pale, like he was going to be sick. For awhile, after it happened, Mickey was sick most nights.

 

 

  
“Fuck,” Jack swears, and he doesn’t try to touch Mickey, which is nice, “fucking hell.”

 

 

  
“Yeah, man.” Mickey says, a little awkward, “but I uh, only got visitations. On weekends.”

 

 

Across from him, Jack isn’t sitting like his therapist; he’s sitting cross-legged in the booth, hands tucked under his thighs. His black tank top is a little too loose, and Mickey can’t help the way he thinks a little too gay. Mickey can see his nipples, the whole expanse of his tattooed sides.

 

 

He’s also not saying a whole lot, mostly just. Listening. He doesn’t pry, or ask questions, doesn’t even fucking nod his head. It’s almost worse than his therapist - because at least with that guy there’s some distraction. He can avoid topics by talking to someone about other topics. This is just some guy, kind of, maybe like a fucking friend. Or something, and he’s just fucking listening.

 

 

“Do you wanna,” he stops, considering, “wanna see like, a picture or some shit?”

 

 

Shrugging, Jack untucks his hands, “Do you wanna show me?”

 

 

His first instinct is not really. No.

 

 

He’s not quite there yet.

 

 

“His name is Yevgeny,” he settles for instead, glancing down before back up again, tries to seem sorry.

 

 

Jack is entirely unbothered, just grins kind of dopey and lopsided, and Mickey can’t handle the way Jack’s looking at him now. All moony eyed and fond, like Mickey’s doing everything he’s ever wanted, by talking to him. For once, actually talking. Mickey’s seen this expression before, Ian used to make it back when they first started hooking up. It’s strange, to see someone else looking at him like that.

 

 

“I have an ex boyfriend,” Jack says, suddenly, and it’s so ironic that Mickey nearly laughs, “kind of an asshole still. Still using, yaknow?”

 

 

Clearly, Jack is offering up information in return for Mickey sharing. It would be a gesture Mickey would maybe be able to appreciate, if he didn't have that to dump on the guy in addition.

 

 

"Yeah, man," he mutters, exhaling, "I got me one of those too. Kinda why I fucking-" He stops, scratching at his arm awkwardly while he shrugs one shoulder.

 

 

  
At this confession, Jack leans forward slightly, maybe just a little bit more curious. Mickey can't blame him, not really; Jack's the kind of guy who _dated,_ growing up. Who explored and fucking learned, trial and error and all that shit. To him, this could affect _them_.

 

 

"I see," is all he says, still looking so fucking understanding that Mickey doesn't know what to do with it.

 

 

"Sorta ran into him yesterday," shrugging again he rotates the mug on the table in a circle, focusing pointedly on the motion. He doesn't say Ian's name, doesn't want to risk Jack figuring out just who he is. It's weird, talking about it. Ian. He never really has, with anyone. Anyone close enough to their destructive orbit either has a side, or avoids getting involved all together. Minimize collateral damage.

 

 

  
"We spent the night together," he admits, wincing a little at the poor phrasing, "not like, fuckin or anything." He feels the desire to want to share that, even if it wouldn't be Jack's business one way or the other, but as a person to another person, Mickey just wants to be honest. Show Jack he can be honest. "Just slept in the same bed, ya know, queer shit."

 

 

"Ah, yes," Jack agrees, conspiratorially, "all of that queer shit. Who even knew you were gay?"

 

 

Somewhere along the line, it stopped being terrorizing, to hear that. Then it became something of discomfort, but bearable. Just something he didn't talk about. Now, it feels good to be able to enjoy it.

 

 

  
"This shit isn't easy for me, man," he defends, maybe a little playful, whatever, "I don't do this kinda stuff."

 

 

"You do with him," Jack points out, but it doesn't sound mean or jealous, just observational.

 

 

"Took a long fuckin time," he mutters, suddenly feeling very guilty.

 

 

"I'm..." Jack twists his mouth, considering, "I am obligated to ask you, if he offered you any drugs, or if he was high. As your sponsor I'm kind of required, but as the person you have been sleeping with I want to assure you there is no underlying motive and you don't need to explain anything you don't want to."

 

 

For the first time, Jack appears something other than open and collected. It makes Mickey feel a little bit better.

 

 

"Nah, it's good," he replies, "it's not quite like that. He's uh, he's actually sober. Kind of just." And this time he does give a short laugh, twirling his finger by his temple, a crude imitation for batshit crazy.

 

 

Ian's not crazy, not really - at least not for being bipolar, Mickey knows that. They both know that, now, even if it took them awhile. When it comes to Mickey, however, Ian is maybe a little bit crazy. They both are.

 

 

"Honestly, I could go on for goddamn hours about him," he says finally, "but I don't have to cause, uh. I came to talk to you, instead."

 

 

It sounds a lot like _I chose you_ , but what he means is _I chose this_ \- the two feet he has on the ground, even if it's just his tiptoes. He has a feeling Jack can hear it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS TOOK FOREVER, MY BAD.
> 
>  
> 
> I was stuck, but now I'm not. 
> 
>  
> 
> Especially cause my main lady, Dcg, is the coolest EVER and lets me babble endlessly at her while I work through this nonsense. Thank you. Rule the world. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also thanks to [Ride4812](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride4812/pseuds/Ride4812) for her input as well!
> 
>  
> 
> Tanks for reading and all and stuff yes thank you see you soon.


	7. nobody else but me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UM, HI. *waves* DONT HATE ME. I would never abandon this fic, its my baby, but as it progresses I'm realizing my initial plans for it were just vague and make no sense. It's literally a work in progress. AT LEAST ITS KINDA LENGTHY?

His face is too broad - nose too long, eyebrows too heavy. Blue eyed, but more on the grey side, complexion darker, and definitely too tall.

 

 

"What's your name?" Ian asks abruptly, interrupting the guy's attempt at a come on speech.

 

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Olivia is grinning through a pinch in her face, giving him a waver of her hand. She's telling him he could do better, but Ian already knows this. It's not about doing better tonight. Finding someone to go home with wasn't exactly his intention when he agreed to go out with Olivia. Outside of potentially irritating his brother by hanging out with the girl he was screwing around on, he had absolutely wanted to avoid his family witnessing the more then concerning vibes he knew he was emitting in droves. To his advantage, Olivia hardly knew him, and had no reason to worry about the wild look in his eyes he noticed in the mirror as he was getting ready. Everything she talked about earlier when she opened up about Lip, about open relationships and stepping stones, kept circuiting through his brain.

 

 

  
"Taylor," the guy replies, smiling eagerly.

 

 

  
Ian coaches himself through not imitating the same pinched expression he saw on Olivia. The name isn't even close, not by a long shot, and it's perhaps a little juvenile, but Ian can't help but think about how Taylor is a girl's name.

 

 

  
"Tonight it's Mickey," he says, without hesitation, but maybe with just a hint of inquiry. He's not a dick - if this guy isn't into what his requirements are, he's not going to force him. He's certainly not going to pay him.

 

 

  
For a moment, it seems like the guy is considering declining the offer. From the way disappointment flutters across his face, then switches into rightful defiance. Ian waits patiently, arms crossed while he casually scans the club for a next potential - now that the idea has invaded his mind.

 

 

  
"Okay," Taylor answers finally, giving a short nod of his head.

 

 

  
Ian gives him a lewd grin and motions for the guy to follow him, giving Olivia a subtle wink as they pass the spot at the bar she's sitting at and she scrunches her nose up even further, clearly disappointed. He shares the sentiment, honestly, but beggars can't be choosers and all that.

 

 

 

\- - - - - -

 

 

  
On his knees, mouth full of cock, he looks a little bit more like Mickey and it's a little less disappointing.

 

 

"Fuck, Mick," he sighs, palms against the door of the bathroom stall. Ian refuses to touch him, thinks the attempted intimacy might actually make him soft if he were to feel all the ways this guy isn't actually Mickey. And if he keeps his eyes mostly closed, only stealing glances every once in awhile, that makes it easier too.

 

 

In response, as if sensing the name is as close to a compliment as he's going to get, the guy increases his effort. He isn't as good at it as Mickey either, can't take him down as far, has to use his hands more then Ian really likes. But Ian thinks about how Mickey wasn't always as good as he is now, how he had to practice and learn.

 

 

  
"Is that good?" Not Mickey asks lowly, throwing Ian for a moment and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, has to imagine his Mickey murmuring that exact phrase in between tonguing the head of his cock.

 

 

  
"Yeah, it's - yeah," he says, grabbing his cock and pressing it back against the guy's lips, "can you just?"

 

 

  
It takes him a long time, longer then he wanted it to; he feels bad, especially when he jerks the guy off after. As far as hook ups go, it was pathetic and Ian knows the guy wishes he hadn't wasted his time.

 

 

  
When he makes it back to Olivia, she's drunker then when he left her and there's a couple to her left very obviously chatting her up. Ian hangs back for a moment, watching curiously. In all the time he had been with Mickey - excluding before the marriage stint and Ian's cheating, he had never considered adding someone to their relationship. He certainly never considered allowing Mickey to see anybody else. Did couples really do that? Did it really help relationships sometimes?

 

 

  
In his gut, he can't possibly fathom it - Olivia had sounded so callous when she had talked to him about it earlier, complaining about Lip's infidelity. If he had just been honest with her, they could have talked about it. Them seeing other people, in addition to each other. If he had just been honest.

 

 

  
She didn't know it, had no idea she was even doing it, but she had agitated something in Ian. Honesty did fuck all for him; only managed to get him in the position he is now, without Mickey and judging by how his morning went, it'd be a little bit longer before that changed.

 

 

  
Unless - unless he could give Mickey that option, that freedom. Show him he wants to still be there, on his terms, if Mickey will have him.

 

 

  
Glancing at his watch - he made himself leave his phone at home - Ian grimaces. It's late, almost two o'clock, and the buzz from the half a beer Ian had sipped earlier is long gone. Combined with the weight of his lame hook up, he's exhausted and really just wants to go home. He glances back up at Olivia, to find her looking at him, smiling tiredly. He flicks his eyes in question to the couple and she subtly shakes her head.

 

 

  
Taking that as an indication, Ian approaches them, gives the couple an friendly grin, "Hey, Liv, sorry to interrupt, but Stevie just called me - said she's been trying to reach you. She's locked out of the apartment, you ready to go?"

 

 

  
The lie is easy enough, and Olivia impresses him mildly at how she rolls with it just as easily - Ian might feel a little bad for judging her before.

 

 

  
"Sorry," she offers the couple, shrugging in a what can you do kind of way, "roommate duties. I swear though, I'm going to have to find a new one at this rate." The parting joke seems to smooth over the abruptness of their exit.

 

 

  
"You coming back?" He asks her when they're outside of the bar. The block they're on is quiet, even for a Tuesday and not being that far from the city's center.

 

 

Shaking her head, Olivia fumbles with her phone, "Nahh, I'm gonna get an Uber. I'll talk to him tomorrow, or somethin."

 

 

"Okay," he says simply, plucking her phone out of her hands. She laughs a little at it, but lets him send for the car and enter his phone number into her contacts. "Text me when you get home, so I can sleep tonight."

 

 

"You gonna get home okay? Bit of a hike, you can crash if you want."

 

 

  
Ian looks away, rubs at his mouth; her address is only a couple of blocks from Mickey's, he recognized the street name as one of the ones he took to walk home earlier that day. He doubts if he stayed at her apartment that he would actually remain there. Too close to temptation - like Mickey used to say before they moved into their apartment, when they still lived in the neighborhood he bought his drugs in.

 

 

  
"I'm good," he responds, opening the door for her as the car pulled up, "a little fresh air couldn't hurt."

 

 

Olivia clumsily kisses his cheek before she climbes in the back seat, and she doesn't mention anything about how Ian showed up at his house earlier drenched in sweat, having already walked countless miles home, doesn't fix him with any sort of pointed or concerned look.

 

 

  
He waits until the car turns the right direction before starting home again.

 

 

  
\- - - - -

 

 

  
It's nearly four AM by the time he gets to the Gallagher house, even though he didn't walk the whole way - only a couple blocks before hopping on the bus. The El would have been quicker, but Ian liked taking the bus at night - it was usually deserted on his route to Canaryville and he was able to grab a doughnut in between stops.

 

 

Fiona will have his ass in the morning - since he hasn't officially started working yet she's skeptical of whether the job is even real, and Lip refused to back him up because Ian's still not speaking to him. Staying out so late on a week night, especially without letting her or anyone know was pretty much asking for trouble. He tries to be as quiet as he can when he enters the house, and is relieved to find Fiona not awake and waiting for him.

 

 

She stopped doing that, really - he's an adult - but with his track record the past few weeks Ian's knows he's on crisis watch.

 

 

Carl isn't in the room when he gets in, and Liam is asleep - he tiptoes awkwardly around the mess on their floor while stripping off his tshirt and jeans. Laying down he leaves the sheet off his body - it's insanely fucking hot, the feel of his skin from being out all night is grimy and gross, but it distracts him for a few minutes before he reaches under his pillow for his phone.

 

 

  
Four missed calls from Fiona, and his inbox indicates seven text messages.

 

 

  
The most recent one is from Olivia, even though he doesn't have her number it would only make sense. Fiona's name is there, and another number he doesn't recognize.

 

 

  
In seconds, his heart is pounding in his throat.

 

 

  
_My new number_

 

 

  
_Know you might not wanna talk to me right now but I wanted you to have it_

 

 

  
_At least let me know youre good man_

 

 

Mickey. Mickey had texted him, several times throughout the course of the evening. The last message made his hands shake, _I cant stop thinking about you_ , and he forces himself to take a deep breath before replying. Everything in him wants to say me too and then why did you not want me back? He wants to argue and plead and beg, wants to call him up and talk about it again, convince him otherwise.

 

 

  
Instead he types back, _sorry was out with a friend._

 

 

 

 

He turns over on his side and closes his eyes, hand curled around his phone - any tiredness he had at the bar is gone now. Fuck, what Mickey fucking does to him; now that he's sought Ian out, even after the scene he made this morning, he feels wrecked all over again.

 

 

In his palm, his phone buzzes not even a minute later.

 

 

_you good?_

 

 

Wanting Mickey to expand further on just how he couldn't stop thinking about Ian right away was a stupid hope, Ian knew, so he chastises himself for the way his eyes sting in frustration at the ambiguous tone of the text. Was he good? No, not really. But he couldn't tell Mickey that, not if he was going to convince Mickey to give him a shot sooner rather then later.

 

 

  
Still, it was four in the morning. Mickey answered him immediately, meaning he was awake waiting for Ian to get back to him. Probably. Possibly.

 

 

  
Or he was just getting finished with that guy, and happened to hear his phone go off - another deep breath.

 

 

_Fine, I was on Lip damage control. Another let down girlfriend._

 

 

His phone buzzes again, _Do you ever get to pass the torch of that responsibility or what?_

 

 

Ian bites the inside of his cheek, pulse skittering before increasing even more. What is Mickey doing? The concerned, checking in texts made sense - Ian had left in the midst of one of his meltdowns. But this, this casual, familiar banter was torture; not when they still had so much to talk about.

 

 

_Such a torch burns only bright for me._

 

 

Okay, it is easy, talking to Mickey in every way except for the way that actually matters. They've always gotten along, made each other laugh. It's just hard to draw the line, Ian thinks, while he eagerly waits for Mickey to reply. It's hard to notice when it stops being familiar and starts becoming the all consuming, unwavering desire for each other.

 

 

  
 _Can I see you again soon_ , he sends right after, deciding to bite the bullet. While he may have slightly resolved to play by Mickey's rules for the time being, he's anxious in letting Mickey come to him, for fear it would be longer then Ian is willing to wait.

 

 

  
It feels like his point is proven when it takes Mickey a significantly lengthier amount of time to answer; he's either weighing his options, or he fell asleep. It's entirely possible he fell asleep, seeing as how it's nearing five AM now, and there's nothing he could do about that, even if he followed up with a series of texts explaining himself. Mickey sleeps like the dead. If he's weighing his options, however, Ian wants to be able to have good reason to back up his request.

 

 

  
Fifteen minutes later - _Yeah, I wanna see you._

 

 

Letting out the breath he didn't know he had been holding, Ian finds himself grinning a little madly. Mickey wants to see him, that has to be a good sign.

 

 

  
When, he's given up on playing it cool - Mickey said the magic fucking words and he's going to take whatever he can in this moment, steamroll right over whatever doubts his ex may be having. It's been awhile since he's had to up the charm factor quite so much, but he knows he is more then capable.

 

 

  
_When do you start working?_

 

 

  
Rolling over onto his back, Ian thumbs at his screen, tapping the glass thoughtfully; he starts on Thursday - Stevie had wanted him to be able to start on a day where he had actual things to learn, when the business started picking up for the weekend. That was two days away, though, and Ian didn't want to wait two days. Hell, if Mickey asked now, Ian would be out of bed and on his way in a heartbeat.

 

 

  
_Thursday. You going to be awake for longer? I could grab a cab now._

 

 

  
Biting his lip, Ian adds Mickey's new number to his contacts while he waits for his response. He's coming on a little strong again, he knows, but it's like a moth to a flame, the feelings that he has for Mickey. Impossible to stop, just as natural as breathing; he spends a couple of embarrassing seconds staring dreamily at the photo of them he always keeps for Mickey's contact photo. Candid, Fiona took it their third official Christmas together, and it's of their profiles sitting on the Gallagher couch, leaning in for a kiss. Ian's face is mostly turned away, but Mickey's smile is gorgeous in it.

 

 

  
_hell no i'm exhausted, come by when you're done thursday, wanna hear about your day_

 

 

  
Ian tries to not let himself be disappointed, he knew it was a longshot when he asked, but what he would fucking give to fall asleep next to Mickey for two nights in a row. He has half a mind to put up more of a fight, and another to just agree. Instead, he settles for not saying anything at all despite the way his fingertips burn in need.

 

 

  
\- - - - - - -

 

 

  
It's almost noon when Ian wakes up the next morning; his limbs are heavy and drag slowly as he sits up and his cottonmouth is pretty gnarly. On his nightstand are his morning medications; Fiona must have tried to wake him up earlier, another thing he's sure he will hear about later.

 

 

  
He decides to text Olivia, hoping that maybe she hasn't spoken to Lip yet; after last night he's developed a bit of a fondness for the strange girl and he'd like to keep her off the receiving end of Fiona's disapproval. No good would come of his older sister discovering he'd been out all night with his brother's fling, would squash any hope he had of maintaining a friendship with her if his sibling thought she was convincing Ian to stray from his routine.

 

 

  
There's another notification in his inbox, from Mickey, saying good morning.

 

 

  
Ian can't stop the slow, pleased grin that spreads across his face. Whatever Mickey had been trying to stand by, he was saying quite the opposite by his continuous efforts to talk to Ian. It makes his heart soar, and his blood sing.

 

 

  
Thursday couldn't come soon enough.

 

 

  
\- - - - - -

 

 

  
Wednesday passes quicker then Ian expected, considering the increasing build of his excitement and impatience for the next day. With the distraction of seeing Mickey again, he's no longer agitated by the new job jitters and finds himself buzzing around the house the whole day, cleaning and cooking. The energy in his veins feels warm, a low and pleasant hum that even his siblings seem to find contagious and not at all alarming. Fiona and Debbie spend the afternoon with him tackling the kitchen and downstairs bathroom, scrubbing and washing, singing along to the shitty pop station they manage to get through on the ancient boombox Ian brought down from the attic.

 

 

  
Despite the cold shoulder he had been giving his family, he enjoys the company of his sister's and decides to forego the effort of being angry for the time being. After all, what a waste of perfectly good energy? Fiona doesn't even mention his all nighter, surprisingly, opting to join in on his positive attitude.

 

 

  
Not to mention, Mickey spends the whole day messaging him still - polite and relatively casual for them, but Ian can feel his teeth sinking into the bait anyway. It's new, a different direction then they usually take, but Ian is ready for it now, he thinks. He has a plan.

 

 

  
"You're in a good mood," Fiona comments later that evening, smiling carefully over a pan of spicy mac and cheese.

 

 

  
Shrugging, Ian can't top the way the corners of his mouth tug up, the way his phone feels heavy and warm in his pocket, "Start work tomorrow," he offers as reason, tapping his fingers against the tabletop and Debbie looks up from her own phone.

 

 

  
"Is Olivia gonna be coming around again?" She asks, expression hopeful and curious - in true form to her older brother, Debbie also has the bad habit of befriending Lip's conquests, desperate for some sort of female companionship outside of her older sister and Vee. She's never quite fit in with the girl's her own age; a little too smart, too independent despite her desire to fit in.

 

 

  
"Dunno, Debs," Ian replies vaguely, absently ruffling her hair in a motion he used to do all the time when she was younger. She doesn't even seem to bristle, smiles at him in that adoring sort of way he hasn't seen in a long time.

 

 

  
Wednesday is a good day.  
  


 

 

\- - - - - -

 

 

  
Any and all nervousness that had slithered it's way back into Ian's subconscious the next morning on his way to his new job abruptly dissipates an hour and a half into his first shift. He spends the very beginning of his unofficial orientation trying not to think about his phone, about whether Mickey has texted him again. They had said good morning, and Ian had been unable to help himself from inquiring about whether he was still supposed to go to his ex's apartment again that evening. It was a show of weakness he hadn't meant; assuring Mickey he was cool and supportive of his decision's meant not giving into his own insecurity in the situation, but he just had to be sure. It wouldn't be unlike Mickey to back out last minute on something that made him the slightest bit uncomfortable.

 

 

  
Stevie reminds him a lot of Mandy - crass, all hellfire and attitude; she was unimpressed with his vanishing act the previous week and reminded him in no uncertain terms that her shop is still a place of business and any and all latenesses or early leaves would need proper approval and coverage. And similarly to Mandy, she took one look at his big, sorry eyes and scoffed, rolling her eyes fondly.

 

 

  
"Nothing but trouble," she says, reaching up to tap his jaw with her knuckles softly, "aren't you?"

 

 

  
They work companionably; his new boss alternates between crudely hitting on him, lamenting solemnly on his homosexuality and grilling him on his taste in men.

 

 

  
"Ugh," she complains when he finally caves, giving her a brief description of his quote-unquote type, "I was hoping you'd be less of a top."

 

 

  
Sputtering around a spoonful of speculoos that Stevie demanded he eat because she had already had four and the fifth scoop had been out of gluttonous habit, Ian raises his eyebrows, smirking.

 

 

  
"Oh, so you double as a matchmaker?"

 

 

  
Scrunching up her nose, Stevie twirls a long strand of dark hair around her finger, rolling her eyes, "Bitch, I wish. If anyone bothered listening to me, I'd be making a fortune."

 

 

  
Ian laughs good-naturedly, surprised at how the conversation was keeping him from mindlessly obsessing over Mickey's potential response. If there even was one; his phone wasn't on him, he'd respectfully left it in the back.

 

 

  
"My partner, Jack," she offers the name helpfully, as if Ian maybe had forgotten who the intimidatingly tattooed guy he met in addition to her, "he started seeing this guy, but I don't know. Kinda shady, in my opinion, but what do I know?"

 

 

  
"You wanted to set me up with my technical other boss?" He questions incredulously, absently pricking the tip of his finger with the censor gun.

 

 

  
"Please," Stevie scoffs, "there are no corporate laws here. You're hot, he's hot, thought maybe you two could hit it off. I met you twice and I know more about you then this guy he's been talking about for months."

 

 

  
"Pre-exposure," Ian reminds her, "maybe this guy's just really private?"

 

 

  
"Too private," Stevie insists, reaching over to take the gun and current packaging from his hands, "now, go across the street and get us some Thai. I'd go myself but they aren't too keen on my business since they caught me selling some weed in their back alley."

 

 

  
\- - - - - -

 

 

  
The rest of his shift he spends swapping stories and gossip with his new boss, who makes fun of him for not knowing how to run a computerized register and keeps sneaking 18+ stickers onto the back of his tshirt. He finds himself enjoying her company even more then Olivia's; is able to keep up with her sharp tongue and relentless teasing. He's reminded of Mandy so often it leaves him aching and happy at the same time.

 

 

  
It's a nice distraction from the budding anxiety beneath his skin. On his way to buy their lunch, Ian had checked his phone to find a simple yes in his inbox from Mickey which was equally relieving and agitating at the same time. On one hand, Mickey wasn't telling him to fuck off and never mind, but on the other it was untelling of anything going through his ex's head. He'd forced himself from pushing for a further reaction and merely replied he would be done around six.

 

 

  
He'd secretly hidden an extra order of sticky rice from their lunch excursion, because he knows Mickey loves it despite his claims of not being interested in hipster jungle food and when Stevie kicks him out at quarter of six, he plans on swinging by a convenience store for a couple of king sized Snickers bars before he heads over.

 

 

  
Despite his initial rejection, Ian's holding onto some sort of hope that his ex isn't entirely incapable of still being charmed by him. With Mickey, it's about the little gestures - anything too grand and he bolts. Ian came on too strong, too sure the other day, he knows that now. If he wants Mickey back, he's going to have to let him think it's on his terms.

 

 

  
While not ideal, it's a sacrifice Ian is willing to make this round, at least for the time being.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, this will be a two parter in Ian's POV, just like the previous two chapters were in Mickey's. So this is pretty much the filler. I dont think the rest of this fic will continue that way, but in this still opening bridge before the real drama I'm trying to delve as much into both characters as much as possible. THANK YOU, FOR EVERYONE WHO IS STILL WITH ME FOR THIS. I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH. 
> 
> ALSO, still a special thanks to my girl who lets me ramble aimlessly at her. 
> 
>  
> 
> Namaste!


End file.
